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Thursday, 20 July 2017

The Centre for New Writing (CNW) has been awarded Best Cultural Impact for its work on literary development. The CNW was established in 2013 as a practical response to the research findings of its founders, particularly in relation to the exclusion of British Black and Asian writers. The aim was to diversify literary voices beyond the metropolitan mainstream.The CNW subsequently raised regional writers’ professional profiles through a series of funded projects: ‘Grassroutes’ (Arts Council), ‘Sole2Soul’ (about Harborough Museum’s shoe exhibit) and ‘Affective Digital Histories' (AHRC, http://affectivedigitalhistories.org.uk/). Our research identified creative commissions as a key support mechanism for promoting writers outside London. Accordingly, the CNW has commissioned 74 pieces of writing since 2013. Among these are 6 major commissions for the Affective Digital Histories project, performed at The Phoenix, soon afterwards published as a book and accompanying smartphone app called Hidden Stories (2015). Two CNW commissions have won literary awards and another CNW-commissioned work is being made into a film. A further CNW commission is the subject of an article (authored by Corinne Fowler) in The Cambridge Companion to Black British Writing (2016) of which the writer SuAndi states ‘with steadfast determination, champions of the Black British voice … have stepped forward [to] recognise the value of our literature across all genres’.A central CNW strategy has been to tap into infrastructural support for regional writers by using creative writing to enhance non-Arts research. As the managing director of the spoken word organisation Tilt observes, the Writing and Research initiative ‘makes a case for literature …This is something to be admired (and sustained).’ Some key collaborations include: ‘Women’s Writing in the Midlands’ (using creative writing to raise awareness of 18th women activists) and ‘Life Cycles’ (a commission to help the Diabetes Research Centre combat sedentary behaviour). A further CNW commission, ‘Artificial Intelligence,’ promotes the public benefits of new technologies. The CNW also commissioned a writer to produce a script for a short film, presented by Brett Matulis from Geography, to influence policy-making at the World Conservation Congress, a global environmental forum. In a 2015 survey of the region’s literary scene by The Asian Writer, anonymous respondents said of the CNW: ‘The Centre for New Writing is … leading the country and perhaps the world in its field, presenting a tremendous variety of literary events with an enormous scope and revolutionary discourse.’ Another respondent said: ‘Leicester is practically undergoing a renaissance! It has been galvanised by the Centre for New Writing ... as the centre has supported writers and the overall literary scene both page and stage’”. The free Literary Leicester Festival has been central to this strategy.The CNW wishes to thank Leicester's literary community, and all its partners, for their consistently brilliant and constructive input.

Wednesday, 19 July 2017

The programme for this year’s ArtBeat Leicester Festival was packed with activities. They ranged from Israeli dancing to philosophy in the pub to a Gurdwara visit with curry lunch. I ticked off the most appealing events but I knew that it would be impossible to attend them all. I was going to have to be selective. The festival theme was 'We All Belong' and this was the topic for this year’s ArtBeat poetry competition. I submitted two poems and fully intended to turn up to the prize-giving event but, as I said, it was a busy week. Did I mention the Lindy Hop or the Indian Folk Dancing or the Maypole Dance Workshop? It was a true test of stamina. Last Tuesday, with all thoughts of Artbeat behind me, I attended my regular poetry group meeting. I settled down to a morning of workshopping, only to find myself the centre of attention. The Festival organiser had chosen that morning to present me with a certificate, or to be more precise two certificates. To my embarrassment I’d scooped not only 1st but also 4th place in the 'We All Belong' poetry competition. There is a lesson to be learnt here. If you enter a competition, make sure to give top priority to attending the prize-giving event, no matter how busy your week is. Here (below) is the poem that won first prize:

The Top ClassWinner of the Artbeat Leicester ‘We All Belong’ Poetry Competition, 2017It was our morning mantra: Linda. Here, Miss. Andrew. Here, Miss. Lee. He’s not here, Miss, and we knewthe Board Man would be on his way.He’d not go round the back like us.He’d knock on Lee’s front door while Lee hid because that’s what you did when The Board Man called.After the register we all lined upfor assembly in the hall. Cross-legged by the back wall we flicked paper pellets and sangabout Jerusalem being builded here in our green and pleasant land which was really grey and full of soot from the factory down the road.In class we sat at desks with lids,did handwriting with pens that had spiky nibsand pounds, shillings, pence sums on squared-paper.We longed for Miss to say, playtime,and give out bottles of milk from the metal crate. In the playground we skipped with the long rope, and we chose the song, jelly on the plate, because we were the top class. We stayed out for PE, for the fresh air,and spun hoops round our waists, round our necks when Miss wasn’t there, but games on Friday was the best, going to the field, clambering onto the bus, racing for the back seat and us all singingTen Green Bottles and falling about laughingbecause we always got the numbers wrong.Soon we’d sit the 11 plus test and they’d split us up for ever.We’d be sent to the sec mod down the roador the big grammar school in townwhere we’d be streamed and given homework,where we’d have to read stuff by Shakespeare, do logarithms with a book full of numbersbut for now we were the top class.

Monday, 17 July 2017

Scott Freer lives in Leicester, is an English Literature lecturer and is editor of The Journal for the T.S. Eliot Society (UK). Turning the Wild West of an allotment into a friable tilth is meant to improve your worldview and vocabulary. The title of the poem ‘Omniscient Certainty’ (below) is borrowed from Jonathan Taylor's book Science and Omniscience in Nineteenth-Century Literature (2007), with particular reference to Pierre-Simon Laplace’s Enlightenment quest for total knowledge.

Omniscient CertaintyLook towards the edge of the allotmentand find a bucket to carry the waterto feed a little life into the dried tubersA tiny hole at the rusting base creates a trickling effectand by the time you cross the earthfrom the sunken streama continuous trace will lead you backIn the summer the potatoes multiplyAnd the guttering arches on the shedLife seems so certain hereSurveying this cherished patch ChickenshitShe goes to the allotmentCarrying the chickenshitTo fertilize the potatopatchI, on the other hand,Return to our bedAnd my morningPoetic arisingBut where’s my chickenshit?Only a muddy-ascending-noiseAnd nothingMaterialRisesExcept the cat of courseFrom out of a duvet-patchNow, I could tell you aboutOur Buddhist neighboursWhose earth onto-theology isPlant deep NurtureAnd wait for The mysterious white chickensChickenshit, I say,Without the magical compoundNothing material (potato/poem)Rises

Friday, 14 July 2017

Shelley Roche-Jacques’ poetry has appeared in magazines such as Magma, The Rialto, The Interpreter’s House and The Boston Review. Her pamphlet Ripening Dark was published in 2015 as part of the Eyewear 20/20 series. She teaches Creative Writing and Performance at Sheffield Hallam University, and is interested in the dramatic monologue as a way of examining social and political issues. Her debut full collection Risk the Pier is just out, from Eyewear.

ShrinkIn here I’m fine. It’s watercolour printsand plants, and wisely-chosen magazines.I’ve thought all week about the goals we set.How I must stop and think and draw deep breaths.You said we need to figure out what triggersthe attacks. Did you call them attacks? What’s triggering the rage. The incidents.I’ve really thought on that. The one at workthe other day. For God’s sake! They’re good guys!Collecting for charity - dressed for a laughin floral blouses, lipstick, sock-stuffed brasand heels – I guess I knew one shove would do. I didn’t mean for him to break his leg. But he was asking for it dressed like that.I still can’t quite believe they called the police.Second time in a week. Who knew that takingadverts down on trains was an offence?I had to climb onto the seats to reach,but then the plastic casing slid clean off.I wrenched the poster down and stared at it.Are you beach body ready? I was not. There’s no getting away from it.Even at nightit’s all bunched up tight in a sack of darkabove my head.Or it stretches away like the pier, or hospital corridor, through the stale bedroom airand there’s me at the end of itthere – tiny – shaking my fist silently.But let me try to keep my focus here.The worst of it is when I hurt my son.A children’s party is a hellish thing.And this one had a clown who made balloons:a flower or tiara for the girls, swords for the boys. I didn’t say a word.I simply smiled and helped set out the food.I nearly made it past the party games.Musical statues. Robin Thicke. Blurred Lines. There comes a time – a limit, I should say:it’s five year olds gyrating to this song.The music stopped - I yanked my frozen sonand scrambled through the streamers to the door.Through You’re a good girl. I know you want it.Unfriending soon began – and Facebook throbbed into the night – She calls herself a mum.She’s fucking nuts. It’s just a fucking song.And worse, the snidey stuff, the faux concern.It must be awful to be in that statewhere something like a song can trigger that.She has some issues. Let’s give her a break.A break! Yes please!I’m sad face, sad face. Angry face.The trolls of Twitter sent me almost off the edge.Why d’ya hate men so much @suffragette?Look at her! Jealous!The bitch needs shutting up.I know where you live.I clutched the blind,and stared into the darkeach night for months.I lost the fight online. Or lost the will.I said I’d try to focus on real life.Now that’s become as messy and as grim.I keep returning to the Town Hall steps.I must have played that scene a thousand times.I knew the strip club bosses would be therein James Bond suits and aviator shades.The dancers, I had never seen before.I left the meeting, having said my bitand found them waiting cross-armed on the steps.One blocked my way, with eyes I won’t forget:so green and angry. What right did we have?Did we want them to lose their fucking jobs? It was alright for us - the la-di-da’s.I’m not alright. I think that’s why I snapped.I really wish that I could take it back. I don’t remember everything I said. I’m pretty sure I mentioned self-respectand then the men came out and shook their heads.If I had stopped and thought and drawn deep breathswould that have worked? What else do you suggest?

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This blog features work in progress, articles, reviews, links and reflection by Ph.D students, MA students, BA students, graduates and staff at the university and in the wider community. If you'd like to get in contact with us about the blog, please email us at creativewritingatleicester@gmail.com.